Page 9 of How to Claim A Shadow King

This castle feels… alive. There are no footmen or servants waiting in the wings, yet every domestic comfort seems to materialize the exact second my mind registers the need.

Whether or not that’s better than the tired air of the estate I grew up in or not remains to be seen.

Doesn’t mean it’s not unsettling.

“No one can make the Duchess of Stormspire do anything, not even a so-called Elder God.” I stomp my foot and gather my skirts in hand. If my voice shakes slightly, I don’t care.

As long as I try not to think too hard about the fact that me being here means that very sentence is a lie, I can pretend I’m here because I wanted to be.

I was forged in the fires of petty court drama. If he wants a formal, perfect little duchess, he’ll get her.

And then some.

In the meantime, I might as well explore while I’m being threatened with formal dining events.

3

MALAKAI

The house is upset with how I’ve treated the witch.

The door to my study sticks, and I grit my teeth as I try to yank it open yet again.

It’s been an age and a half since I’ve been here, since I’ve been… corporeal—but the house has not changed one bit.

It should be comforting.

Perhaps it would be to another.

Instead the castle, as always, is a nuisance.

I yank the handle again, harder, and the door sticks slightly before flying open, the momentum nearly sending me backwards.

Nearly, but, “Not good enough!” I yell out, then stomp into the drawing room in my half of the castle.

I am beyond annoyed.

“Why doesn’t she want to be my mate?” I mutter, trying to remember what my forebears did to earn their witch queens. They are me, and I am them, the same way I am the land, the bones under the forest and the roots and the new growth all at once.

There is no memory of the old queens, or the older versions of me.

I squint at the coals glowing in the huge stone fireplace, the shadows streaming off me making the light flicker and dance.

As if the damned castle is laughing at me.

I give the windows a dark look, half-wondering if the blue velvet curtains were there last time I was… here.

A glimpse of sunlight on gold catches my attention, and it chills me to my bone, a memory catching fire in my mind.

Another woman, another me.

Moonlight on water, like the hair of the witch promised to me now fleeing the hallowed grounds of my keep.

Grief.

So thick it clogs my throat, the memory fading too quickly for me to grasp its significance.

All I know is that it has something to do with the woman who refused me, the woman now stubbornly stalking across the walk and through the garden gates.